


First Night Nerves

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: There's a birthday in the armoury and Malcolm's made up his mind, this is one party he's not going to miss. Can it possibly turn out the way he hopes?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** I tried to delete a chaper and ended up deleting the whole fic. If I had a brain...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm heads into the lion's den. He may not realise it, but he has an ally already in there...

He hesitated outside the noisy mess hall, running fingers through his formerly groomed hair for the tenth time since leaving his cabin. _You can do this. You're comfortable around these people._

And the birthday girl, Malcolm Reed remembered with a rueful smile, had threatened to crack his spine in a dozen places if he let her down tonight.

Captain Archer had overheard the shrill warning from the armoury door and remembering the shock on his C.O.'s face brought a glimmer of a smile to Reed's. Whether the man had been more amazed to hear his Chief Tactical Officer being threatened with GBH, or him addressing a cackling subordinate by the affectionate diminutive of _Mashka_ , he didn't care to guess.

"I'm glad you're coming tonight, Malcolm," the bloody fool had murmured as the sleek Russian woman scuttled away with fire blazing over the delicate planes of her oval face. "And obviously Crewman Morozova appreciates it!"

"I wouldn't miss it, Sir." After all, there was anti-social (which Malcolm readily admitted he was) and there was downright undutiful. While he could be the former when it suited, the Englishman made a point of never being accused of the latter crime. 

And anyway, he had something important to do under cover of a boisterous birthday jamboree. 

A wave of nausea washed through him, causing him to clutch weakly at the bulkhead, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he was intending to do. If the unexpected smiles, the lingering touches bestowed every day, at every opportunity, weren't driving him out of his mind at an increasing rate of knots he would sooner face the wrath of Morozova than another drunken knees-up watching his beloved get plastered and flirt with almost everything in sight.

The thumping bass of music stilled, and in that split second of silence between its end and the raucous cheer going up, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed made his choice. Tonight, ready or not, was _the_ night.

*

"Trip, will you for Chrissakes _relax_!" His crew's noisy applause for the song's end gave Captain Jonathan Archer the chance he needed to jab his companion abruptly in the ribs safe in the knowledge nobody would hear the Chief Engineer's aggrieved yelp. "I'm telling you, he's coming."

"Cap'n, that's what scares me." Uncharacteristically morose, Commander Charles Tucker the Third scowled into his unwanted vodka punch, oblivious to the exuberant wave of his second in command, Lieutenant Megan Hess, as she led an impressive conga past their secluded table. "I know what I _want_ to do, but - what if I'm wrong?"

"What if you're right?" Archer challenged, all his Starfleet command training called into play to keep his spirits up in the face of such determined pessimism. "I've been watching, and you're right. He colours up every time you touch him, and yes - when you smile, he dips his eyes and wets his lips."

"He does that a lot," Tucker argued, spiking a piece of bloated fruit on a cocktail stick and letting it splash messily back into his glass. "That mean he's getting bashful when he makes a suggestion at a briefing, because you know he always licks his lips then."

"Does he?" 

"And right before he teases Hoshi about her aim at target practise; and when he's starin' at his damn console trying to make sense of a new set of readings. He doesn't blush then, though."

"Okay, that makes it easier. It's definitely you."

"Could be he knows how I feel and it embarrasses him," Trip objected, wary as he brought the drink handed over on his arrival to his lips. "What's in this, anyway? I'm gonna go grab me a scotch - you want this?"

"No, thanks." Before his friend was halfway vertical, Archer shot out a restraining hand to turn the younger man sideways toward the doors. "Told you he'd be here."

The corners of the mess hall were deliberately poorly lit: a romantic decision by the engineering staff the Captain suspected hadn't been passed with complete disinterest by the department's besotted chief. He was surprised to discover the low lighting still showed a blush so clearly.

Malcolm Reed stood for a moment between the open doors, quietly surveying the territory. Bodies cluttering the empty central space where the tables had been pushed back; a gaggle around the makeshift bar, squealing at the contents of the punch bowl. And in the far corner, halfway to his feet and staring right at the newcomer, Trip Tucker, the Captain's hand on his arm as if to restrain him from flight.

Malcolm couldn't help himself. His stomach did a couple of backflips and he smiled, lifting a hand in acknowledgement of Captain Archer's _come and join us_ gesture. He'd just get himself a drink - liquid courage never hurt anyone - before stepping into the lion's den.

The image of Trip with a shaggy mane of dark gold hair, perfect for running hands through, momentarily unbalanced him and while he was trying to recover half the armoury staff erupted from the crowd shouting greetings. With an apologetic half-smile Archer's way, Malcolm allowed himself to be swallowed up in their midst, the gift in sober green paper he'd been clutching like a lucky charm squashed between himself and its recipient. "Oi, careful not to damage it!" he yelped.

His crisp enunciation carried through the music's pulse and as the tight knot around him thinned Jonathan Archer was astonished to see a broad smile grace the angular features of his taciturn security chief. "Well I'll be damned," he breathed. 

Sinking back into the seat opposite, Trip glowered at his old ally. "You never seen Mal with his team or something?" he growled as Morozova tore the wrapping from her gift and on a shriek seized her boss in an enthusiastic hug. "They damn near worship the ground he walks on!"

"I know they'd follow him through fire, but I've never thought of Malcolm as being exactly tactile." He was getting himself into deeper water here, Archer realised, trying not to stare at the chuckling lieutenant disentangling himself from his subordinate and giving himself an ostentatious brush-down before sauntering toward the bar. "It's kind of weird to see a guy you've always thought of as untouchable letting himself be manhandled by the lower ranks."

"It really stung, didn't it?" The explanation did Malcolm no favours, but Trip was prepared to let that slide in deference to the hurt in Johnn's eyes. "Him sayin' those things about your command style when he thought he wasn't gonna live long enough to be called on it."

"I guess it did." His glass halfway to his mouth, Archer froze, fixing narrowed eyes on his friend's concerned face. "Wait a minute! I never told you..."

"Malcolm did." Though he tried not to act like a lovestruck teen, Trip suspected the little sigh on his beloved's name betrayed him. "Guess he was kinda worried when he came round after surgery: thinking he'd offended the big boss and all."

"Guess so. You going for that scotch?"

"Are you throwin' me out?"

"Just pointing you in the right direction." Jade sparkled from Archer's eyes through the low light as he added a physical impetus to the words. "Think about it: if he was willing to spill his guts even then, he _must_ be crazy about you. Malcolm doesn't like showing insecurity."

"Okay, okay, I'm goin'!" If, Tucker added silently, he could trust his watery legs to get him that far.

He could feel his friend's support in the gaze that followed him the length of the room. "Hey, Mal. You havin' a tough time choosing?"

"There seems to be vodka in everything - even the bloody rum." He'd felt himself jump at the first syllable in that honey-smooth voice, but Reed assured himself if he just kept his head down until the heat in his cheeks cooled, Trip would never realise. "Even Rostov's advising people to avoid the punch, and he helped Chef create it."

"Turning yellow, is he?" Raising his voice enough for the offender to hear, Trip punched the Brit's shoulder, letting his knuckles linger a moment against the smaller man's soft cream shirt. "You mind passin' me the scotch?"

When Malcolm obliged he deliberately left his fingers against the Southerner's for a supercharged moment, forcing himself to hold widening blue eyes directly. Swallowing hard, Trip sloshed a large measure into a spare glass before presenting its twin to his companion. "No vodka in this,"he announced, offering the bottle. Malcolm tilted the empty glass in readiness and with an almost-steady hand he poured a similar measure. "Come sit with the capn'and me."

"If you're sure it won't be an intrusion." _Dear God that sounded as if I'm insinuating something!_

"Glad of the company, Lieutenant." To cover his nerves, Trip took a healthy glug, then coughed violently as the mature liquor stung his throat. "Cap'n, you're not leaving so soon?"

Archer managed an apologetic grin over his shoulder, the slight turn enough to reveal a small and very determined Communications Officer dragging him by the hand toward the dance floor. Or at least, Trip suspected it was meant to look apologetic.

What showed on Jon's face, to one who knew him well, was shit-eating smugness. _Least Hoshi's saved him the embarrassment of mumbling an excuse and hoping Mal buys it!_

He was disappointed when Reed slipped into the seat facing him, idly playing with the glass in his hands. "Morozova seemed pleased with her present," he volunteered, fascinated by the way the Englishman's long lashes dipped when their glances happened to snag. Malcolm shrugged.

"I'd never have pinned her down as a Beanie Babies type, but there you go. Madeleine had a hell of a job tracking that particular one down."

Whisky spewed from what felt like every orifice. "Malcolm, what in God's holy name is a _Beanie Baby_?"

"Late twentieth century stuffed toy. She's got a whole collection of the blasted things in her cabin."

So he'd been into the brazen woman's quarters, had he? Suddenly Tucker felt a lot less kindly toward the birthday girl. "They still common?" he asked, surprised by the mild tone.

"Mercifully, no." Malcolm chewed his bottom lip, the easy flow of words deserting him now they were alone. He would have felt less inhibited, he realised with dismay, had Captain Archer and a whole phalanx of admirals been peering over Trip's shoulder.

"Madeleine tracked it for y'?"

"Mads collects old-fashioned toys too." Thin lips twisted into a definite grimace. "Her bedroom was always stuffed with scraggy bits of fake fur and battered plastic. Waste of money, my father always said, and for once, I agree with him."

"If it keeps 'em happy." Another slug of liquor might not settle the butterflies swarming in his guts, but its pleasant, smoky heat made Trip feel better all the same and evidently Malcolm felt it too. Both glasses were empty. "You want another?"

"Please." Anything for a few seconds to plan his next move.

_Next? You haven't made a first yet, Malcolm my lad._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moves are made. And reciprocated.

After the third venture across an increasingly dangerous dance floor Trip gave up and brought the bottle. The booze was relaxing Malcolm visibly, bringing a slight flush to the usually pale cheeks and helping melt the steel rod the man seemed to have stuck to his spine, leaving him free to loll against the back of his seat and watch proceedings get more raucous with silver-bright eyes. "Y' know, Mal, you're a lot of fun with a few drinks in y'," Trip announced suddenly.

"I can be _a lot of fun_ stone-cold sober, if I choose to be."

The accent, Tucker realised. Still needle-sharp despite the liquor which had to be affecting a smaller, slighter man than himself. "You're such a snot on duty sometimes."

A small corner of his mind was howling about the worst pick-up lines in history but when Reed smiled his full-blown, carefree smile Trip stopped listening. "With you and dear old _Cap'n Geniality_ wanting to dash off and play ball with every shifty-looking bugger we meet out here, somebody has to be cautious."

"You think we take too many chances?"

"The evidence is irrefutable. Bloody Hell, Tanner, you'll have somebody's eye out with that finger in a minute!"

The cavorting ensign waved his boss's way, winning a cheery salute in return than tailed off as Reed realised his glass was mysteriously empty. 

Not for long, he realised as Trip poured a generous refill. "Oh, thanks. Bottoms up!"

Trip choked on the dregs of his scotch, gesturing helplessly for more as he sputtered. Swaying slightly, Malcolm sloshed a measure into the engineer's glass before reaching over to pound him helpfully on the back. "Shall I call Phlox?" he asked, the worried note creeping back into his rich voice. Taking another hefty swallow - which didn't, Tucker noticed with interest, sting so badly any more - the engineer shook his head.

"Hell no! He'll only wanna take notes and ask questions."

"Hmm, good point." Inspired by he didn't know what - _probably the alcohol_ , Malcolm amended with an inward giggle - the brunet slipped into the seat beside his friend's, letting himself sag against a powerful shoulder. "You don't mind if I turn my back on them, do you?"

"It's probably be more polite for somebody to sit facing them, but if you're okay with it..."

"Mustn't be rude in company." Disappointment's leaden clouds dissolved beneath a sunburst of exultation as Trip clambered upright and rounded the table to settle beside him. Emboldened, Malcolm resumed his initial position, a peep beneath the lashes enough to confirm that Trip Tucker was really supporting him and making no attempt to move away. 

A moment later and the arm against which his weight pressed came up slowly to drape around him. He risked another peek and almost whooped aloud at the tentative expression at odds with the determined set of that firm Floridian jaw.

Distracted by the pressure of a hard thigh pressed against the length of his own Trip sipped his drink and let his eyelids drift down, dulling the rosy glow, a perfect match for his companion's heightened skin tone, that coloured the entire room. His muscles felt soft as sun-warmed butter and the knot of sticky tension in his belly was unravelling nicely, sending languorous tendrils of anticipation southward. Malcolm was comfortable. He was even - tentatively, if you squinted through the whisky's mellow haze - flirtatious. 

The silence that engulfed their small bubble at the side of the overcrowded room protected them from external attention until an inebriated birthday girl decided she needed to get her boss out to _shake his stuff_ , ignoring his laughing protests long enough to heave him bodily into the thickest crush of bodies. Suddenly chilled, Trip turned his empty glass restlessly between his hands, squinting through the threshing melee to watch Malcolm surrender, hands thrown up as he moved to a driving beat. Morozova threw an arm around his waist and rubbed herself lasciviously against him, theatrically batting her eyelashes. 

The soft pink haze around Enterprise's chief engineer deepened to blood red.

Reed glanced across at him, mouthing a suitably over-dramatic _"Help!"_ and the fiery sensation cooled despite elegant Russian planting a kiss against the Brit's cheek before backing off. Catching her hand, Malcolm spun her through a series of swift turns before finishing with an extravagant dip that made her wavy blonde ponytail sweep the deck plating. People applauded and Trip was enchanted by the bashful expression that flitted over the sharp-angled face. 

Malcolm caught his eyes and sent a small shrug his way, gently murmuring his excuses to his giggling subordinate before squeezing between two canoodling couples blocking his route to safety. He'd barely got through the gap, smile widening at the sight of Tucker standing to greet him before another pair of small, well-manicured hands wrapped around his bicep.

"Oh no, Lieutenant!" Hoshi, he realised with a sinking heart. Long black lashes cast coyly down over too-bright eyes, her loose hair spinning over her shoulders like a glistening jet cape. "If you can dance with Maria, you can damn well dance with me, got that?"

"Aye, Captain." _Oh well._ He was fond of Hoshi, and if being side-tracked by her kept that naked look of disappointment on Trip's lovely face, practically screaming his desire to have Malcolm Reed all to himself, he supposed he could live with another rapid spin around the mess hall.

As he was passed from Hoshi's arms to those of Travis Mayweather right in front of their table, barely able to mouth an apology over the big boomer's shoulder to a decidedly sulky engineer, Malcolm found himself regretting his passive display of ingrained Reed courtesy to his giggling best girl friend. All that made the danger to his brogue-clad feet bearable was the increasing fidgetiness of another senior officer whose narrowed stare he could feel burning right into his backside with every pass they made.

That, he admitted as the music changed and their mad attempt at a double-time Viennese Waltz relaxed to a more familiar tempo, and the sheer hilarity of having Travis, his honorary little brother, making cow's eyes at him every time the balladeer howled about being _in luurve._

Between the pleasant cotton-wool feeling in his head, the laughter of his friends and the increasing certainty that Charles Tucker III _was_ after his arse, Malcolm hadn't felt so good in a very long time.

Travis blew a series of extravagant kisses at him. Oblivious to the heads turned by his rare, raw burst of laughter, he returned them with interest, directing a scatter more out toward the rest of the room. He felt breathless, young and silly, and it was all that beautiful golden hick of an engineer's fault.

_I'll tell him so. Honestly, I will. Later._

He leaned back in the circle of Travis's strong arms, letting the swirls of lights overhead blend until he felt he was floating, lost in the midst of an exploding star. There was no plating beneath his feet; no celebrating shipmates singing around him. Even Travis melted away. 

Malcolm Reed was in love, and it was wonderful.

His giddiness was punctured by an abrupt cessation of movement that thrust him up against the helmsman's broad chest and he looked around wildly, blinking against reality's brutal return. "'scuse me, Travis; you mind if ah cut in here?" Trip drawled, flicking a cocky smile Malcolm's way as he eased the burly boomer sideways. Mayweather cleared his throat, not quite hiding a grin behind his hand.

"Sure thing, Commander; always defer to the ranks, right? Thanks for the spin, Malcolm!"

"Er, yes, of course." The protective buffer of intoxication wore off fast as another pair of arms, only slightly less muscly than the first, looped around his waist and he stumbled over his own feet, caught unawares when Trip began to guide him away from the perimeter, right back into the crowded heart of the floor. 

Waltzing with Mayweather, after all, was a great joke; something he could laugh about in the morning when the fuzziness of fine whisky had receded from his head. To be wrapped in the arms of the man he'd been fantasizing about for months... could anything be more embarrassing?

_And isn't he holding on a bit too tight for a jokey all-buddies-together spin?_

"Sorry, Malcolm." The words feathered his ear as the taller man stooped, his minimal positional change closing the small space between their bodies in a manner Malcolm found exciting and disturbing in equal measure. "Ah jus' couldn't stand it anymore."

"Oh. That's quite all right, then." He felt the sharp sting of teeth cutting into his bottom lip but barely registered the pain's source. "Trip?"

"Yeah?" The slowing music seemed to magnetise them, drawing their bodies into full length, titillating contact. His slacks at least, Reed considered, must catch fire at any moment, yet he couldn't pull away.

"What couldn't you stand?" 

A wry chuckle moistened the sensitive shell of his ear. "Seeing you in somebody else's arms, isn't it obvious?" Tucker murmured, smiling into his partner's dark hair at the tremor that sizzled through the smaller man. "You look so good tonight - wish you'd wear your civvies more often - I just can't resist..."

He drew back at Malcolm's gasp, a mere breath of sound that sliced straight through the female vocalist's caterwauling and passed direct from ear to dick. "Hell, who am I kiddin'? I can't resist you anytime, whatever you're wearing: even when you're covered in mud and slime from havin' dragged my ass outta the latest alien cesspit. Is - is that okay with you?"

The din beyond Trip's arms faded away. Malcolm found himself standing in a vacuum, wide eyes locked on the frightened, hopeful face of the man he adored, completely unable to form a simple word. Wetting his lips, he managed a mute nod.

No sunrise was ever more dazzling than the smile that lit the Southerner's worried face, but he was granted no time to enjoy it. A shaky "Hot damn!" expelled between his teeth, Tucker drew the Englishman back into a tight embrace, all pretence of moving to the beat abandoned in favour of a trembling hug amid the chaos of a dancing crew. Burying his face in the crook of the taller man's neck Reed forced himself to uncurl each tensed muscle, drinking in the ping of sensation through every nerve receptor. Trust Trip to be the brave one.

The reassuring warmth of his partner seeped into him with the exultation of the moment, an intoxicant more potent than any alcohol that enabled Malcolm's mind to blot out his surroundings as long as the music hummed and the man holding him continued to sway, their feet barely moving. Other couples moved around them like waves breaking on a stony shore, brushing by but never disturbing, tender smiles being exchanged behind their backs. Trip never wanted it to end.

When it did and Malcolm's head came off his shoulder, he wished it had happened sooner. Sleepy-eyed and glowing, the brunet gave him a slow, sultry smile that flipped his innards over. "Would you care to join me for a drink, Commander Tucker?" he murmured, the formality sounding doubly flirtatious. Trip snickered.

"If we were back on Earth I'd buy you the best the 602 could offer, Lieutenant," he drawled, sliding a hand down from the small of Malcolm's back to rest against the firm curve of a buttock, a slight pressure enough to jump-start the younger man's jellified legs as he was steered around the edge of the room to the back of the buffet tables. "In fact - screw that. I'd take you somewhere fancy. Wine and dine you, maybe take you dancing..."

The warmth flooding Malcolm's vitals owed nothing to the punch he drank without tasting. "Really?" he asked, oblivious to the oceans of hope in the little word. "Then..."

"Guess then it'd depend on you." Watching a pink tongue-tip sweep around appealingly puckered lips emboldened him and Trip set aside his glass, stooping down to whisper right into his companion's ear. He didn't miss the small shiver running through the younger man, and his heart rate kicked into overdrive.

"If I saw the right signs, I'd maybe take your hand," he continued, suiting action to word, his fingers lacing through Reed's slender ones. Like a newborn acting on instinct, Malcolm gripped them hard. 

"Signs?" he whispered.

"You know, shallow breathin', dilated pupils, that cute little tongue of yours wetting your lips as you kinda lean in, lookin' up at me like I'm all you can see."

All the signs he was getting, Tucker thought, as he recited them, his face moving inexorably down as if those slightly-parted, glistening lips were magnetised. "And then?" Malcolm breathed, the words fanning out over the end of Trip's own circling tongue. A strong arm came up around his back, pulling him full-square against the solidly muscled length of Tucker's body. 

For a moment he felt himself hanging, suspended in space: aware of everything yet powerless to do anything. Then, soft as a snowflake, Trip's lips claimed his and the universe melted away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up. Quickly.

Tucker couldn't believe his luck. Like a flame igniting Reed flared up into his tentative kiss, his lips parting at the first brush of tongue along their crease while his hands worked rapid random patterns over Trip's buttocks, back and hair. The first touch of tongue tips sent arrows of fire into the groins of both men and they ground together, spiralling into wantonness as long-submerged desires screamed inside their skulls. Trip had never dared hope his dream lover would be so responsive.

"Malcolm." The name thrummed against its owner's tingling lips, and strong hands cupped his buttocks not-so-subtly pulling him up to ride the powerful thigh wedged between his legs. Malcolm mewed into Trip's kiss, the overload of sensation he was feeling gathering deep in his nether regions as a satisfying hard-on. Languidly he pushed it against his partner, a growl rumbling up from the base of his throat when the hand on his backside pressed him closer. Deep in his mouth Trip's tongue pistoned along the length of his in powerful strokes, a foretaste of everything he yearned for further south.

He was in paradise. Frantic, Reed sought to express his gratitude with groping hands and sucking tongue, thrilled beyond measure when a moan vibrated through his mouth. The solid strength between his thighs jerked and he whimpered, one hand winding its way into the engineer's short fair hair.

The minimal tug against his scalp hit Tucker's hyper-stimulated system like a lightning strike as he squirmed against the willing warmth of the Englishman's hands, mouth and cock, lost to everything but the sensation of the man he loved enveloping him. Malcolm tasted sweet and tart at once, everything overlaid by the smoky heat of the scotch he'd been drinking earlier. He was nectar, and Trip knew without any conscious cogitation he would never drink his fill.

So engrossed were both men that the neutrally clipped tones of their immediate superior rebounded off their clinch twice before, with the caution of an engineer babysitting Phlox's bug collection, T'Pol extended a thin hand to drop on the nearest shoulder. "Commander. Lieutenant. I believe the appropriate phrase is: _get a room_."

The splash of metaphorical cold water to the face when Trip jerked away, Malcolm noticed with faint surprise, lasted barely a moment: a fact probably not unconnected to the long arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him well within the defensive perimeter of his beloved's embrace. "Uh, that sounds like a good idea, T'Pol," the Southerner agreed, clearly displeased with what Reed thought a deliciously husky edge to his voice. Golden eyelashes dipping, Trip shot a tentative glance his way. "I mean - would you let me walk you home, Mister Reed?"

"With pleasure, Mister Tucker." He sounded as if he'd been gargling nails Malcolm realised, but when the hand Trip wrapped around his quivered he found he really didn't mind. Sensation fizzed up his arm from the scratch of calluses against his work-leathered palm, the tingles diverging to strike heart and balls simultaneously. He barely noticed the throng thinning out, people stepping aside to stare as the two of them ambled to the open doors.

The quiet of the hallway almost deafened him. Trip turned on the balls of his feet, staring down into the flushed, open expression of the usually controlled armoury officer with narrowed eyes, worrying away at a lower lip still tender from kissing. "You okay with this, Mal?"

"Christ, yes!" Of its own volition Malcolm's body swayed against his, and that was all it took for Trip Tucker to lose his mind.

His groan buried in the thickness of the lieutenant's rumpled hair he lifted his man bodily, jamming the tight, sinewy frame up against the nearest bulkhead and rubbing himself against it like a bear at a favourite tree. Malcolm clutched at his back, a soft sob of raw want seeping through their ravenous kiss. "Not here," he gasped, head connecting sharply with the wall as he wrenched himself away. "Oh God, Trip!"

Something warm and wet hit the base of his throat, exposed by the open neck of his soft cream shirt, and liquid heat cascaded down the centre of his chest. "Please love," he panted. "Take me - home!"

Home. Somewhere private. Together. 

Yes. He wanted that.

Wanted it, Trip discovered as his wobbly legs remembered how to move, so badly he could even force himself to shift away from the burning hardness melting his midriff and shuffle them awkwardly along the corridor.

At least until the next doorway, which they fell backward into already kissing. B deck. How in hell was a guy supposed to get to B deck?

_Oh, yeah. Turbolift. Damn things move too slow!_

By the time they staggered out of the lift, entwined like a pair of knotted snakes, Malcolm's shirt had come untucked and Trip's buttons had been popped off exposing his bare upper body to his lover's frenzied hands. Stumbling along the hallway, bumping into the walls every fifth step they ground against each other, each man oblivious to anything beyond the sweet twisting of tension deep inside. Falling against a convenient doorway Malcolm dragged his lover down, allowing their erections to say a first direct hello. 

The pressure in Trip's balls went critical. With a drawn-out moan he dropped his head onto Malcolm's heaving shoulder, powerless against the surge of ecstasy racing through him. He clung to the smaller man, starbursts erupting behind his closed eyelids: riding the wave as it rushed toward the shore.

Drowning in his own body's capacity for pleasure, Malcolm Reed was caught unawares by an explosion for the first time in his life. While Trip shuddered to completion, wetness spreading from his belly to Reed's, he continued to undulate, his hands roaming over the broad, strong back of his lover to keep him close, sharing the turbulent sensations that rolled through the bigger body. He wanted that release for himself so badly yet somehow it danced ahead of him, for ever just out of reach.

"Shit, Mal I'm sorry... so sorry." The repetitive chant took precious seconds to pierce his lust-fuddled haze, freezing his hips at the deepest point of contact with comprehension's stab. "I've never - damn, 'm so embarrassed..."

"Sssh, love." Compassion, Malcolm discovered, could actually stimulate an already over-excited man to new heights and he stroked himself eagerly against the blond's sticky core. "That was the sexiest thing I've ever experienced. I want - oh fuck, do that again!"

"This?" Another leisurely shimmy won a loud groan that echoed along the empty corridor and in spite of his unexpected release Trip felt lust's sweet spike skewer his balls. Fully aware of their location for the first time since falling off the lift he wrapped his hands around his partner's hips and steered him the last few metres to his exterior cabin, exerting just enough pressure to titillate without sending Malcolm careering over the edge too soon.

The moment his door shut behind them he let his knees give way, drawing the brunet's smart grey slacks and boxers - silk, he noted with a thrill of surprise - down en route. The heels of his hands against Malcolm's hipbones he leaned forward to flutter his tongue against the empurpled cockhead before sliding around it in a lazy serpentine that made the Brit whimper and thresh. "Gotcha," he mouthed, carefully relaxing his throat before releasing his grip to let his man buck hard.

Enveloped by the wet heat of that talented mouth Malcolm lost all his notorious eloquence, able to express his delight only in wordless grunts and wails. His universe narrowed until all he knew was the tingling tightness in his granite balls, the pulse of sensation tearing through his dick. He clawed the air until his hands came down around Trip's bobbing head, the slide of silky hair through his fingers unbearably erotic. And he felt himself hang for a moment, gloriously aware of the cataclysm as it broke, ripping his body and soul apart.

Palms pressed flat against the wall to steady himself Trip sucked greedily, revelling in the salt sting of each powerful spurt until the convulsions slowed and Malcolm's flaccid length flopped between his lips to be licked clean with small, puppyish swipes. Easing back he allowed the younger man to slither, barely sensate, into a loose embrace, dark head lolling like an exhausted child's against his shoulder. Crooning nonsense he swept comforting strokes down the length of the bowed back, happy to wait forever if it took that long for Mal to come around.

At length he was treated to a sound that stole his breath: soft and gravelly, a supremely smug hum that reminded him of nothing so much as a satisfied tomcat's purr. "You with me, Malcolm?"

"Mmmm." His vision was still blurry, Malcolm recognized with dazed amusement, clearing steadily as Trip's glowing face came into view. "That was marvellous. Can we do it again?"

The response to stimuli of a sleepy kitten and the innocent honesty of a child. Two things Trip hadn't expected of Mr Self-Controlled. If he hadn't been ass over elbow before, he decided, these latest surprises would have suckered him for sure.

"I'd like that," he pledged, raspy with the emotion that burned inside his chest. "Come t' bed now?"

The joy that chased over those sharp-angled features stunned him. "I'd like that even more," Malcolm drawled, using Trip's shoulder for support to lever himself upright. "Blimey, legs have turned to jelly! You're completely astounding, Commander Tucker, do you know that?"

"Right back at y' Lieutenant, but no ranks in the bedroom, okay?" His brush against the other man's body in standing was 100% deliberate, and by his quick grin Malcolm knew it. Trip let himself fall back, splayed full-length along his narrow bunk with his hands tucked behind his head and a mad, disbelieving grin lighting his handsome face. "Now why dontcha come down here and make love to me, Gorgeous?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip should know better than to think it's all that easy. Malcolm's about to hit the morning after.

Two hours later, aching in places he hadn't known he possessed, Trip was determined he would never complain about Malcolm Reed's obsessive perfectionism again. Ever. Not even when he siphoned off two percent more power from the impulse engines than they'd agreed in front of the captain to speed up his latest phase cannon modifications.

He'd imagined the shy Englishman might show a whole other side in the sack, but not even his wildest fantasies had suggested Reed could know that many ways to drive a man insane. Fingers, teeth, tongue, even toes... Malcolm had used every part of his impressive anatomy to tantalise his partner, and that was before he'd driven the most impressive piece of all up into Trip's unresisting sphincter and fucked the screeching Southerner harder than he had ever been fucked before. 

Having come in his pants for the first time, Trip suspected he'd also experienced his first ever blackout from pure pleasure. Cradling Malcolm's slim frame close, he whispered a fervent "Thank you," into the hopelessly rumpled dark hair before closing his eyes and letting himself slide into sleep.

He woke to full alert on a night of novelties some time later, aware of stealthy movement across the cabin even before his eyes came open. Disentangling his hand from the covers Trip hit the light switch hard, the burn in his assaulted eyeballs blotted out by that around his heart at the sight that greeted him.

He caught his man mid-step, one foot hanging above the deck and a look of such utter anguish contorting the angular features that Trip's rocket-flare of anger dissolved in a Fourth of July shower of glinting sparks. "Where're you going, Mal?" he asked softly, afraid to even move lest he scare the Brit into flight. "It's awfully cold out there at - 0300 hours."

When he didn't get hit with a snarky answer he knew his suspicion was on the money. Malcolm licked his lips, adam's apple bobbing as the first, then the second, reply refused to come out. 

"I'm sorry, Commander; I didn't mean to wake you."

_Shit. The formal approach._

Well, Tuckers weren't raised to be formal. Cocking his head Trip dragged himself up against the bulkhead and twisted his trembling lips into the best approximation of a smug-bastard grin he could muster at an ungodly hour with his guts all in knots. "It's a little early to be lookin' for breakfast, darlin'. Come back to bed."

Malcolm stuffed his hands into his pockets, keeping his eyes on the steel-blue carpet until he could be sure they were dry. "I'm sorry, Trip. I - we'd been drinking. It shouldn't have happened."

"You don't believe that." Everything about the man - the foot-shuffling, hunched posture, haunted eyes - screamed of pain and fear, not the horrified disgust Tucker had faced in his nightmares. "Yeah, we'd hit the scotch bottle, but we weren't drunk, Malcolm Reed. We both knew what we were doing, and I can tell you - it's what I've been wanting for a long, long time. How about you?"

It amazed him that people could ever fall for the armoury officer's _Lieutenant Stoic_ act. Like an ancient movie reel emotions chased through the clear grey-blue-grey eyes: doubt; hope; panic; then hurt, in such quick succession he barely had time to identify them. "Please don't go, Malcolm," he murmured, scissor-kicking the covers off the bed. Something new flashed through the steely orbs, turning them momentarily to platinum, and Trip's balls contracted in response.

Desire.

"I have to." 

_Okay. Duty first and foremost. That's your Daddy's way, Malcolm; it doesn't have to be yours!_

He pupped up his lips and leaned against the wall, careful not to crowd the already intimidated man. "Why? I don't want you to. I'm gettin' the feeling you don't want to, so: why d' you hafta?"

"It's wrong - you don't really want me."

"Is that so?" His nakedness wasn't helping Reed's concentration Tucker decided, deliberately kicking his balled-up pants across the floor. "Mind telling me how you've reached that conclusion, because as far as I can tell I've just said the exact opposite."

He wanted to get angry. Wanted to shake the stubborn Limey idiot sick before sweeping him back to bed and proving, in all the myriad ways at Man's disposal, just how much Charles Tucker III wanted Malcolm Reed. 

Yet when he looked at the distraught man his anger dissolved like snow in springtime. Malcolm was tearing himself apart. _Blow up now, Trip old buddy, and you've blown_ us _forever._

"Why wouldn't I want you?" he asked, sliding down to sit, hands dangling between his thighs, on the edge of his bunk. "You're smart as hell, charming, funny and you've got the nicest-made body I've ever seen outside of that damn sculpture collection Momma used t' drag us around every vacation when we were kids. I'm not the kind of guy who falls into bed for nothing..."

"Jungle swamps are acceptable, though?"

They even winced in unison, Trip noted, glad of the distraction from the comment's hornet sting. "I expected to die in that damn swamp. Anyway, kissing that royal bitch was the only way to stop her whinin'!"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." The way he was blushing and blenching, Malcolm considered, his face would be mistaken back home for an old-fashioned Belisha beacon. "That's why I should go. I always cock these things up."

"Malcolm, please." 

Appeals worked better than orders. _Maybe I'll try it next time he's demanding extra power and half my engineering team for his damn upgrades!_ "Kaitaama wasn't a friend. I don't fuck around with friendships that matter like ours."

He kept still under the younger man's unnerving scrutiny, willing all the love he felt for that difficult, doubting soul to shine from his face. You're something special to me, Malcolm," he murmured, extending a hand toward the stricken man. "C'mon, you think I'd spread mah legs and beg just _anyone_ to take me like that?"

The memory tore through Reed's body, settling as a gooey warmth in his groin. "We were drunk."

"No we weren't." They were going in circles and Trip's patience, never his greatest asset, was wearing thinner than Granny Tucker's dining room carpet. Dragging himself up to loom over the smaller man he tried a different tack, steel injected into every word. "Look me in the eye and tell me it was just a fuck to you, Malcolm. Tell me you don't have feelings for me."

When the brunet's lips pressed together and a faint shiver passed through the taut frame he feared he'd gone too far. Then Malcolm's head came up and he saw his challenge met head-on.

"I can't."

All the air he'd thought sucked out of the cabin seemed to flood back, a hit of pure oxygen that made Trip light-headed. "Then get those clothes off and come back to bed, lover-man," he instructed, hoarse as he blinked away the moisture that blurred his eyes. Malcolm's mouth twitched into a reluctant half-smile.

"Why?" he asked, astounded by the sultriness in the single syllable. And by the exultation building up behind his ribcage, filling a space he expected to feel hollow with a delicious ache. Trip's full, kissable lips were parted into the biggest smile he'd seen stretch a human jaw, large, capable hands reaching out to ghost over his face and down to skim his shoulders, moving southward until they could envelop Malcolm's own. 

"Because it's the middle of the night and all I wanna do is cuddle with my gorgeous, passionate man under the covers," he said simply, pressing the flats of his palms against Reed's. "I'm old-fashioned that way; I like cuddlin' after making love all night. You?"

"It's not quite the same after sex; I've not had much experience of _makin' love_."

"Stick with me, kid." The exaggerated drawl always made him smile - never more so than when its use proved Malcolm's faith in their friendship's strength. "Will you stay?"

The fingers laced through his tightened perceptibly. "Yes please."

Catching the brunet's mouth in a lingering kiss Tucker set about the pleasurable business of removing his shirt and slacks, careful to slide the silk underwear beneath down the well-made legs in the same movement. Malcolm looped his arms around his lover's waist, content to hold and be held as he was disrobed with more care than anyone had ever shown him in his life.

He drifted to the bed without feeling the rough carpet beneath his bare feet, helpless to repress a gasp when Trip abandoned his mouth in favour of unexplored territories south. Throat and collarbones came in for a thorough laving, and when a hot mouth closed around a pebbled nipple he heard himself whimper, his shoulders lifted off the mattress in a mute appeal for more. Tucker's smile tickled his flushing skin.

"Sensitive here?" he crooned, adding a scrape of sharp teeth before his partner could sob a reply. Taking the unoccupied nipple between finger and thumb he tweaked hard in rhythm with the bites his mouth applied, his body moving of its own volition to nestle between the smaller man's thighs. Malcolm was squirming, almost babbling his pleas for more, harder, _now_. With his free hand he wandered lower, the slight contraction of taut abs running up through his fingertips and he chuckled, dragging his mouth back up for another sweet, tongue-filled kiss. 

Obviously behind his stern facade, _Leftenant_ Reed hid a mile-wide sensual streak. Trip's cock throbbed hard enough to blank his vision momentarily as a smile of equal width crossed his sweaty face. Exploration was their business, right? Now he knew it existed, he was duty bound to investigate with Starfleet thoroughness.

At his lover's faint mew he returned his full attention to doing exactly that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to face the music. Could Malcolm be, ever-so-slightly, worrying too much?

The usually shrill tweet of his wake-up call penetrated the gauzy layers of sleep with all the ferocity of distant birdsong. Burrowing deeper into his mattress Malcolm dragged up a heavy hand, waving it vaguely in the direction he knew his alarm must be. 

His palm struck something satiny and solid between him and the cabinet, and without opening his eyes he fumbled groggily, trying to identify the solid thing pressed against him. "Mmpf?"

"Hey, Handsome."

The lace curtains of his dream world were ripped apart. "Trip!"

"'spectin' someone else?" A leathery palm ghosted down his flank and he shivered, tingles radiating out in every direction. Not entirely convinced he wasn't still dreaming, Reed cracked open one eye to find himself snuggled into the crook of Trip Tucker's naked body, said Tucker gazing down at him with a look of mingled awe and uncertainty suffusing his even features.

"You stayed."

"Looks like it."

_Ouch_. The dry retort sounded tart but the Southerner received it with a sweet, silly smile that flipped his innards over. "I'm glad."

As he stretched to deactivate the incessant bleat of his alarm their bodies rubbed and both men jolted as if they'd been momentarily plugged into the EPS grid. "So am I," Malcolm affirmed hoarsely, nudging the other man's legs apart.

Trip flinched. "Sore?"

"It's nothing. You?"

"Mmmm." The tiny move it took to keep himself plastered along his partner's length tugged pleasantly at his over-stretched anus and a small, smug smile touched the corners of Malcolm's mouth. "Nice."

"Hell, yeah."

Their erections connected and matched slack smiles spread over two handsome faces. "We got plenty 'f time, right?" Tucker breathed as he swooped in for a slow, sloppy kiss. Reed mewed affirmation into his throat.

Unlike the previous night their coupling was slow, hands roving lightly over glistening flesh, each man lingering to learn the hard contours of his lover's body while they rocked together, tendrils of sweet sensation uncurling through their cores. Claiming his partner's mouth in another endless kiss Trip swallowed down the man's half-startled cry of release, returning it with interest as his own climax surged, soaking their stomachs and chests a second time.

Floating in the afterglow he didn't notice the steady creep of tension returning to his dear one's muscles; nor the minute change in his breathing as reality crashed down around Malcolm Reed's ears, bringing half a quadrant's share of worries in its wake. "I'd better go."

â"Huh? Yeah, we'd better get up." Johnny might understand his reluctance, Tucker acknowledged, but Captain Archer held his Chief Engineer to higher standards than Trip's old buddy had required. "'nother kiss first, though."

"I can't be late."

"You're welcome t' share my shower." Silken skin lightly dusted with fine dark hairs; sinewy muscles that quivered under his lightest touch. The contrast was exhilarating.

Malcolm snorted. "Oh, that'll get us both to our posts on time, will it?" he groused, scissor-kicking the covers clear. "Got a scanner?"

"Don't keep one." Trip shifted onto elbow and hip, gnawing his lower lip as the brunet dressed with quick, jerky movements a world away from his usual feline grace. "What's the matter, Mal? T'Pol don't keep watch on my door - least not since I complained to the cap'n."

He'd expected a roll of the eyes; hoped for a reluctant softening of the taut posture. So the curt "I'm glad you find my embarrassment amusing, Commander," sliced his guts like a freshly-sharpened mek'leth. 

"Are you embarrassed to have spent the night with me?" Unconsciously he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, oblivious to the incongruity of the defensive gesture while naked and smothered in come. Thumb and forefinger wrapped around his top button, Reed scrubbed his free hand over his stubbled chin.

"Of course not," he said, startled by the sharp clench of his innards at the Southerner's visible relief. "I'm simply too short on time to be stopped by every other lieutenant and higher who occupies this deck with meaningful observations about how _enjoyable_ the party was."

"Aw, Malcolm!" So long as the self-conscious little fool wasn't ashamed of their encounter, Trip figured he could handle anything. "Lemme check for you - if you're _really_ not gonna take me up on that offer..."

"Another time, perhaps." Enthralled by the play of powerful muscles under soft golden skin, Reed tracked his lover's progress to the door with avid eyes. "I'm sorry, Trip. I've wanted you for so long, and now all I can think of is how many people saw us going at each other in the mess hall. It's going to be bloody mortifying, knowing they're all sniggering behind their hands as I walk past."

"C'mere." He really meant it Tucker realised as the younger man glided trustingly into his open arms. "Enterprise is a small ship, darlin'. If we're really gonna do this, they'd have to know sometime."

Really going to do it. A relationship. A romance. 

His first experience of zero-g had been the last thing to flip Malcolm's stomach quite this way, but this time the dizzy aftermath felt bloody wonderful rather than vomit-inducing. "I know. Got the collywobbles. Sorry."

_Collywobbles._ Such a Malcolm word. Trip adored it.

"'s okay. You're a private kind of guy."

"I'm going to be a late one if I don't scarper." The quiet compassion in the blond's words touched him to the core, and emotion made Malcolm gruff. "Just imagine the jokes at our expense if a night with you blots Lieutenant Reed's bleedin' copybook! Geroff, you great lummox, I've only got ten minutes to shower and change."

"'kay." A quick kiss was dropped against his crown then Tucker stepped back, careful to keep his naked state concealed from any passing crewmate. "Lunch, 1230 hours?"

A star went supernova in his belly, the explosion making Malcolm's entire being glow with light. "I'll be there," he whispered as he backed over the threshold, glittery gaze locked on summer blue. 

Trip was still peeking around his door, grinning like an idiot, when he rounded the corner backwards and turned to bolt for the sanctuary of his own cabin.

*

Ten minutes later, having showered and assembled the interlocking shields of his unflappable _senior officer_ persona in record time Malcolm paced his tiny cabin spitting out obscenities that would have made his ancient seafaring ancestors blush. Every time he approached the bloody door, his scanner bleeped with an approaching biosign. How many of the buggers lived on B deck, after all?

Trip's presence, he realised too late, had settled his nerves: kept him cosseted in a daze of unexpectedly requited affection that tinged even the most terrifying prospect with a rosy glow. Cut off from that source of solace, he was as nervous as a rabbit in a fox's den and about as much use to the team awaiting his instruction in the armoury.

His churning stomach turned over. Morozova. Tanner. Mueller. A grinning trio of goons who would be tittering behind their hands with every wince and twinge as he bent over the cannon control panels. 

He couldn't face them.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the small mirror opposite his bathroom door brought a bitter bark of ironic mirth. _Could always plead sickness to Phlox. Bloody hell, am I really considering that?_

He looked, he conceded, positively feverish; bright-eyed, flushed, his hair, so carefully groomed a mere two minutes ago, already resembling a hedgehog's spines. 

A splash of cold water cooled his cheeks to something like normal and another vigorous combing sorted the muddle on his head but, accepting nothing could be done about the spring tightening in his guts, Malcolm slammed his hand onto the door panel and stepped out to face the music.

He was fine until he got off the turbolift to find Crewmen Fisher and Haines blocking his path. As he fought off a wave of panic, the two men stepped smartly aside and smiled. "Morning, Lieutenant," Fisher volunteered cordially.

Malcolm grunted a response and quick-marched off, internal scanners searching for the pinpricks of heat that would indicate two pairs of narrowed eyes fixed on his ramrod spine. At the turn in the corridor, perplexed by the familiar sensation of not being stared at by one's shipmates, he turned to peer back.

The hallway was empty. 

With a puzzled shake of the head he continued on his way, only pausing when the armoury came into sight to square his shoulders, suck in a deep breath and count to twenty in Klingon. 

The small mental exertion helped settle his fluttering nerves and even brought a faint, ironic smile to his lips as he approached his domain with the nervousness of a raw cadet on his first day He really would have to ask T'Pol for the same sequence in Vulcan; Klingon numeric cycles were getting far too easy now.

A few heads lifted from consoles at his entrance. "Morning, boss!" was shouted from behind Torpedo Platform 2 where Ensign Tanner crouched, happily tinkering with directional systems. Reed was proud of himself for answering with his usual crisp greeting: and for making it across to his post at the main armaments console without letting his jellied knees give way.

"Recovered from the vodka, you appalling bloody lush?" he asked mildly as yesterday's bleary-eyed birthday girl shuffled up with the night shift's report for his inspection. Maria Morozova wrinkled her straight nose. 

"No, Sir. We're ready to start realigning the power matrices on your signal."

He shot her a sharp look that was met with the blandest expression he had seen grace that delicately-carved face since the day she'd relocated Tanner's micro-screwdriver to the bottom of the osmotic eel's tank. "You did say it was to be done at the earliest moment, Lieutenant."

"So I did." In her ice-blue gaze Malcolm read everything despite the professionally blank demeanour, and for the second time in the morning his chest burned with emotion's luscious ache. "Let's make a start then, before Commander Tucker can complain about the power drain being .002 of a micron higher than anticipated!"

"Aye, Sir!" His small team saluted en mass, each taking their assigned station and setting to work without further instruction. He watched for a moment, a fond smile ghosting across his face. A good crew.

And they cared about him. 

He had never paused to consider their sentiments before: always accepted that he was their departmental chief, and their respect for his position kept them in line. He was beginning to suspect he had done them - and himself, Trip would doubtless say - a disservice.

Mashka, the outspoken minx, had batted away a positive invitation to tease. Tanner, Mueller and Bradley were not peeking over their shoulders, and there were no rolled eyes when he took a moment longer than usual to ease his sensitive arse off its seat. 

Perhaps he had things a little out of proportion. Maybe his groping the Chief Engineer in full view of the whole ship's company was taken as normal. God knew; Enterprise had seen stranger things!

Whatever the reason, by the time an irate Southern voice boomed over the Armoury comm. demanding to know why in hell the drain on the impulse engines was exceeding the agreed tolerances he was ready to answer in the manner expected of a subordinate who knew better than the higher ranks, and to enjoy every second of it. 

Trip's harrumph before killing the channel caused a titter to ripple around the room, which in itself encouraged Malcolm to show his staff a rare, toothy grin. "I presume that means we have permission to proceed," he announced, hopping back onto a high stool without a care for the twinge of pain that must flash across his face. They might smile, but his friends would neither gossip nor mock.

He moved through his part of the procedure on auto-pilot, his mind still reeling from the wonder of what Enterprise had brought into his life. A lover whose whispered words he trusted implicitly and friends who took him as he was, and cared enough to let him be.

It was all that he had dreamed of in his self-imposed hermit's cell, and it had been there waiting all along. 

A series of figures scrolled over his monitor confirming the success of the morning's upgrades and he allowed himself to sit back with a contented smile while his staff whooped their noisy satisfaction. _Lunchtime soon. I wonder how Trip feels about holding hands in the mess hall?_


End file.
